


I Just Want You For My Own

by enoughtotemptme



Series: For We Need A Little Christmas [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what do you say?” Bellamy asks. He squeezes the hand he’s still holding and smiles at her. “Will you fake date me for the holidays?” </p><p>“Oh god,” Clarke says, but she already knows she’s going to say yes. </p><p>Or, Bellamy enlists Clarke to fend off Octavia’s holiday matchmaking. </p><p>[A The 100 Secret Santa gift for bellarkesupernova.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Want You For My Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellarkesupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellarkesupernova/gifts).



> A very Merry Christmas to Kara from your Secret Santa! ;) I hope you enjoyed it!

“Clarke, I need your help.”

She doesn’t look up from her laptop, even as Bellamy flops dramatically onto the couch right next to her.

“You always need my help,” she says, and tries to think of another word for _trivial_.

He nudges her until, with a sigh, she looks up at him. “I need you to date me.”

Clarke blinks at him, and he smiles back. He looks—earnest, she thinks, and hopeful.

“Excuse me?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds funny. She clears her throat. “Care to elaborate?”

“Octavia’s going to set me up,” Bellamy says, and lifts her laptop from her lap. He saves her chapter and closes the lid, setting it on the coffee table.

Clarke frowns. “Like, to fail? Because you don’t need any help with that,” she says.

“Ha,” he says. “No, like on a date.”

She tenses a little. “What? How?” Clarke’s never met Octavia in person, but she knows from Bellamy’s stories and a few interrupted Facetiming sessions with his sister that Octavia is a force of nature. But she lives about two hundred miles away, with her husband, and Clarke’s pretty sure that not even Octavia’s reach can extend this far.

“Christmas,” Bellamy says, pronouncing the word with the same emotion one might say, _tendonitis,_ or _income tax._ “I’m supposed to go up and spend a few days with them over the break, and my sister’s been sending me weird emojis.”

She starts to laugh. “You’re scared of your sister’s emojis?”

“They’re like, the dancing girl and hearts and stuff,” he says defensively. “Plus, Lincoln called me last night. Octavia had told him a while ago to invite his newly-single cousin for Christmas, and Echo apparently finally RSVPed.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. She’s not laughing anymore.

“So I need you to date me,” Bellamy repeats. “Or my sister will lock me in a closet with Echo, and I’ll die.”

“I’m not sure you’re thinking this through completely,” Clarke says. “First of all, why would she believe you suddenly started dating me just in time for Christmas? And why wouldn’t she just lock you in a closet with Echo anyway?”

“I talk about you all the time, she already thinks I’m in love with you,” he says, easy as anything. “If I say we’re dating, she’ll just ask what took me so long.”

The heat creeping into her cheeks has nothing to do with the idea of Bellamy in love with her, and everything to do with the fact that she really ought to consider turning her heater down. To save energy, or whatever. It’s just too warm in her apartment, and—

“And she won’t lock me in a closet with Echo because you’ll be there,” he adds. “If anyone gets locked into a closet with me, it’ll be you, and then we can just—I don’t know, have a thumb war or something until Lincoln finds out and sets us free.”

“Bellamy.” Clarke nibbles her lip. “I—”

He reaches out and takes her hand now, and Clarke’s reminded all over again how well he already knows her, even though they only met a little over a year ago.

“I know you haven’t done Christmas stuff in a while,” he says. “And I’m not—I’m not going to ask you to do any holiday things you don’t want to do. I’m just asking you to be there, for me, and if there’s any point that you don’t want to be there anymore, you just tell me and I’ll take you home. Do you believe that?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Clarke says. She has to blink a lot to clear the blur from her vision. “I know that. Of course I know that.”

“Good. So, what do you say?” Bellamy asks. He squeezes the hand he’s still holding and smiles at her. “Will you fake date me for the holidays?”

“Oh god,” Clarke says, but she already knows she’s going to say yes.

* * *

Exactly a week later, Bellamy shows up at her apartment with a massive chai tea latte in his hand, which he presents to her with a grin when she opens the door.

“Good morning, significant other,” he says.

Clarke rolls her eyes and takes a big gulp of the drink. “This is literally the plot to about seventy different Hallmark movies. You do realize that, right?”

He shrugs and ducks past her into the house to grab her suitcase. “It’s a classic for a reason.”

“I’m not sure we define ‘classic’ the same way,” Clarke says. “We’re clearly incompatible. We should probably break up.”

He squints at her. He’s wearing a knit grey hat, and a matching scarf, but his cheeks and nose are tinged red from the cold. He’s adorable, basically, which is just unfair.

“Are you changing your mind?” His voice is serious now, and he’s trying really hard to seem like he’s indifferent to her answer. Clarke has to crack a smile.

“Nah. I’ll keep you around for a while longer, I guess.”

Bellamy breaks out into a bright grin. “Great. I brought snacks.”

Bellamy brought an entire _feast_. Clarke sorts through the cooler he’d packed while he merges onto the freeway, finding baggies with three different kinds of fruit, four deli sandwiches, her favorite kind of chips, and bottles of iced tea and water.

“No sweets?” Clarke shakes her head.

“Check the front pocket,” he counters smugly, and Clarke gapes at the gallon ziploc full of what look like homemade snickerdoodles.

“These are my favorite!”

“I know,” he says, and when Clarke darts a glance at him, he’s staring straight ahead. He’d taken off the hat once they were in the car with the heater turned on, and she can see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“So,” Clarke says, biting into a cookie to hide her smile. “When did we start dating, again?”

He reaches over to tug lightly on one braid. “Don’t tell me you already forgot.”

“Hey, mister, ten and two,” she says sternly, and Bellamy snickers as he brings his hand back to the steering wheel. “Of course I didn’t forget; it’s the most important fake date I’ve come up with in the last week. I was just testing you.”

“Uh huh,” he says dryly.

* * *

It’s about three hours to Octavia’s place, and by the time they’re pulling into her driveway, Clarke feels pretty comfortable with their story. They’d put it together during lunches and prep periods over the last week, and there’s actually not a lot that they made up, so it’s easy to remember.

They met when Bellamy got his job at the same school Clarke was subbing for an English class, and even when Ms. Vie came back from maternity leave at the beginning of the next school year and Clarke went back to writing full-time, the bond that came with a shared hatred of Vice Principal Wallace, standardized testing, and the rectangular pizza the cafeteria served on Fridays was too strong to break.

In reality, they just transitioned into hanging out after Bellamy got off work, or going to the movies on weekends that Bellamy’s friend Miller refused to see. Sometimes Clarke would bring food to the high school and they’d eat together until the clock marked the end of Bellamy’s lunch period, and whenever she got writer’s block, she’d pack up her laptop and head over to Bellamy’s to take over his easy chair. As much as she likes to tease him about his old man easy chair, it’s amazing at helping her relax and figure out the next sentence.

In their story, they do all of that, plus make out.

“You missed me too much,” Clarke had decided, solemn, when they were planning. “It was your first year at Mount Weather High alone, without your steadfast companion, and it came to you suddenly that the dreariness of your existence was a result of how much you missed me.”

Bellamy had been too busy laughing at the absurdity of Clarke’s tone and words, but he’d agreed to go with the basic idea—they’d gotten together after the new school year started a few months ago, when he realized he missed having her around so much more than he’d just miss a good friend. So he’d kissed her one night, when he’d gone to her apartment after dealing with a bunch of helicopter parents at Back to School Night, and she’d kissed him back, and now they’re a somewhat boring couple. According to their story.

The date Bellamy had chosen for the kiss was kind of funny, to Clarke. He _had_ come over to her apartment after Back to School Night, exhausted and grumpy, and he’d laid with his head in her lap while they watched reruns of _Gilmore Girls_ on ABC Family. His hair had been soft in her fingers, and just before he’d fallen asleep in her lap, he’d murmured around a yawn, “You’re my best friend.”

Her heart had done some funny jumping thing in her chest, and she’d opened her mouth to say something, she’s not sure what, and he’d let out a snore, completely dead to the world.

* * *

Octavia and Lincoln’s driveway is long and covered in gravel and patchy snow, so Bellamy goes slow.

“You’ve talked to my sister a little,” he says. “You know she can be…a lot. She’s probably going to be even worse while we’re here.”

Clarke shrugs, squinting through the glare of winter mid-day sun to see the house emerging from the trees. “Yeah, but it’s been a week since you told her you were bringing me, and she’s been fine.” The house is nice, she decides. The wooden siding is stained, not painted, and a little weathered, but she just thinks that makes it look more charming. There’s a porch on the front with a swinging bench and copper flower pots that are probably bursting in the spring. As they get closer, she can see that someone’s set poinsettias in them, bright against the house.

It’s pretty, and homey, and it reminds her of what her house looked like when she was growing up, cheery and happy and warm.

He hums. “Yeah. Because I threatened not to come at all, let alone bring you if she terrorized you on Instagram or whatever.”

“Oh my god.” She turns to frown at him, but in her periphery, she notices Octavia come out on the porch to wave at them, a big dog at her side. “That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard. You know you’ve basically doomed us, right?”

He frowns back. “What do you mean?”

“You’re telling me the only reason Octavia was quiet and calm this weekend is because you threatened her, and now we’re here, and she’s going to freak out on us, basically.”

“Yeah, basically.”

Clarke groans. “Bellamy! If you’d just let her explode all over snapchat or Facebook or whatever, at least we would have had a buffer. We could have taken a few minutes to get our answers straight, and by the time we got here she would have calmed down. But instead you made her bottle it up until we got here.”

He looks sheepish as he puts the car into park and turns off the engine. Both his sister and her dog are bounding off the porch toward the car, and Clarke knows they only have seconds before they have to be a _couple_.

“I’m quickly realizing that you are right and that would have been a much better plan, yes,” he says. “So, sorry in advance I guess?”

“You owe me so big,” Clarke grumbles, and then fumbles the door handle when Bellamy leans across the console to place a soft, lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth.

“I do,” he says. “I really do.”

Before Clarke can blink, or speak, or react in any normal human way (she has not thought this fake dating thing through, she has _not thought this through_ , she thinks, panicky), Bellamy’s up and out of the car, jogging around to open her door for her while he calls a hello to his sister.

“Ready?” he asks in a low voice, and offers her his hand.

_Not in the least._

Clarke takes a deep breath, unbuckles her seatbelt, and takes his hand.

* * *

Octavia Blake is exactly like Clarke expects her to be. She’s a little loud, more than a little gorgeous, and she waits exactly two seconds before throwing herself at Clarke.

“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Bellamy complains while Clarke spits out a little of Octavia’s hair, returning the woman’s fierce hug a little less forcefully.

“Shut up, I’m still mad at you,” Octavia says cheerfully, and draws back from Clarke. “I’m so glad you’re here! I thought Bell was going to die alone.”

“Love you, too, O.”

His sister ignores him, and Clarke can’t help her smile. “Thanks for having me, Octavia. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Back at you.” Octavia tosses a mildly dirty look at her brother, who sighs and goes to grab their bags out of the car. “ _Someone_ failed in his duty to introduce us sooner.”

“It’s not all his fault,” Clarke says, watching Bellamy fondly as he tries to juggle both of their bags and the big cardboard box of already-wrapped presents he’d stuffed into the trunk. “I’m usually pretty busy when he’s on break and has time to visit you, and I think I was at my mom’s wedding the last time you came to town.” Her mother had married Marcus last July, which—was fine. Good, even, because Clarke knows Marcus really loves her mom, and her mom deserves to be happy again, even if it’s sooner after her dad’s death than Clarke was especially comfortable with.

“Still.” When Octavia stays quiet for a long moment after that, Clarke looks over. Octavia’s watching her, a funny little smile on her face, and for no reason she can understand, Clarke flushes.

Octavia’s been married for two years, and her husband is a giant of a man, taller and broader than Bellamy. But Lincoln is kind, and soft-spoken, and gives Clarke’s hand a gentle shake when Bellamy introduces them, which is honestly kind of a relief after the exuberance of Octavia’s greeting. He and Bellamy do that odd male half-hug so many men seem to use to show affection, and Lincoln immediately takes the presents from Bellamy’s arms and starts distributing them underneath the massive Christmas tree wedged in the corner of the cozy living room. The dog—“He’s named Shadow,” Bellamy explains while Octavia scowls, “after the dog from that movie my sister still can’t watch without crying”—licks Clarke’s pants a few times in greeting, then crawls under the coffee table to snooze.

Then, as Octavia declares she’s going to give Clarke a tour of the house, Bellamy’s hand slides over Clarke’s hip, his index finger brushing the strip of skin between her jeans and sweater. And though he keeps talking, remarkably easy, it’s all Clarke can do to not immediately give it away that they have never done this before. Of course they’ve touched before, casual and affectionate because that’s just how Bellamy is. He’s like a cat, when they’re not being assholes. But that was heads on each other’s shoulders during a movie, or sitting close on the couch because Bellamy always keeps his heater set too low, or hugs if it’s obvious Clarke’s had a bad day, or doesn’t feel well, or has been missing her dad more than normal and just needs someone to hold her.

This—this is like that kiss in the car. Showy but subtle, in a way that feels too _real_ to be part of a ruse.

But that’s exactly what this is. A ruse, and Clarke has no business getting mushy about Bellamy’s lips on her skin or hand on her hips because this is Not Real.

“Where’s Lincoln’s cousin?” she asks brightly, to remind herself—and Bellamy—of just that. “Bellamy mentioned she was going to be here for the holidays, too?”

Octavia gives her a funny look, then frowns at Bellamy. “Echo’s going to be here for Christmas dinner,” she replies. “But she’s not staying here. She’s got some volunteer thing she’s doing in the city for a soup kitchen.”

Clarke smiles brightly, sliding her own hand to rest on Bellamy’s waist, then surreptitiously pinching the skin there. As he jolts, she says, “She sounds amazing. I can’t wait to meet her.”

* * *

Bellamy claims they need a while to rest and then freshen up after the long car ride, then drags Clarke off to the guest room. From the look on Octavia’s face, Clarke is pretty much a thousand percent sure his sister accepted that as code for _gonna go have a quickie._

“Just wondering,” Clarke says as he closes the door behind them, then flops facedown on the bed, “how exactly is your sister going to lock you in a closet with someone who is currently miles away _in the city_?”

He shrugs, which is just rude because then the muscles in his shoulders and back can be seen doing all sorts of interesting things through his thin sweater, and Clarke kind of wants to ruck up said sweater and _touch_ the shifting muscles, except this is Not Real and Clarke is Not Bellamy’s Girlfriend, and she should Not Touch His Body.

“She wasn’t specific,” Bellamy says, rolling his head to the side so he can peek up at her. “I didn’t realize she wasn’t going to be here.”

Clarke squints at him, skeptical; Bellamy flings out an arm and makes grabby motions.

“Come on, Clarke. Take a break for a minute.”

Sighing, she tugs off her boots and sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. Bellamy makes a frustrated noise, and Clarke shrieks when he wraps an arm around her middle and tugs her back onto the bed.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbles, settling in against his side. She hopes he can’t feel the way her heart is pounding in her chest, and she’s suddenly all too aware of the fact that she’ll be sleeping here tonight, like this, right next to him in the same bed.

This is the stupidest thing she has ever agreed to do.

“You know you don’t need me here now, right?” she asks his chest. “We could tell your sister something came up, you could take me to the nearest bus station, Christmas would proceed as normal until you either tell her we broke up or break down and tell her the truth.”

“Of course I need you here. Plus, I want you here.”

A small smile forms on her lips. “Yeah?”

“Duh. That’s what this time of year is about. Being with your loved ones and all that shit.”

“All that shit,” she agrees wryly, while her stomach does something swoopy and dumb when he says _loved ones_.

He hums and squints down at her. “Hey. You doing okay? With all the,” he waves his hand in the air, “holiday stuff?”

Clarke considers it. It’s not like she hates the holidays, or even dislikes them, but she hasn’t actively participated in holiday activities since her father died just after Thanksgiving two years ago. She’d thought it would hurt too much, and she thinks that was the right decision.

But being here, in the cozy house with bright lights and the smell of cinnamon and the poinsettias in copper pots, is nice. It feels _good_ , being here with Bellamy and his family and being around all those normal holiday things.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’m doing okay.”

* * *

It is surprisingly easy to be Bellamy’s fake girlfriend, even when his sister and brother-in-law know him so well. That afternoon, they all go outside to hunt for mistletoe, Shadow trudging behind them, and Bellamy wraps his mittened hand around hers while Octavia asks her question after question about her next novel.

They don’t find any mistletoe in the surrounding trees, but Octavia and Lincoln end up kissing under some brown oak leaves still clinging to the branches while Shadow leans against their legs and howls so they’ll pay attention to him.

“Hey, you two!” Octavia demands, mouth and cheeks red. “Mistletoe, pay up!” She points at the dead leaves on the oak they’re under. Bellamy grins at Clarke before he drops a kiss on the tip of her nose.

Clarke blushes a little, but hopes it just looks like she’s flushed from the cold. She doesn’t really expect Octavia to accept the innocent kiss, but she catches the other woman looking at them with a smug expression, so she guesses she buys it.

Later, during dinner, it _does_ feel a little like that game show, the one with the newlyweds.

“Where’d you two go on your first date?” Octavia asks brightly, right as Bellamy stuffs a massive forkful of twirled spaghetti into his mouth. Clarke gives him a look of mild disgust to mask the low-level panic that strikes the instant Octavia asks the question.

“My couch, I think,” she says when Bellamy gestures, still chewing, for her to go on. He does waggle his eyebrows in an apparently encouraging manner, she guesses, but as far as assistance goes, she’s not impressed.

Octavia makes a face. “Gross.”

“Oh, no—” Clarke says, laughing at little. “We didn’t, um. We just got Indian takeout and watched Netflix.”

“What did you guys get?” his sister asks. “Bellamy always gets the same thing.”

It feels like a test, but Clarke’s known the answer to it for a year. “Paneer masala,” she says. “And I got the chicken tikka.”

“What did you watch?”

“ _Lilo and Stitch_ ,” Clarke replies. Her meatballs are probably cold by now; she hasn’t gotten a chance to eat any of them yet. “Bellamy cried.”

“It’s an emotional movie,” he grumbles, but gives Clarke a smile when she reaches over and squeezes his hand.

By bed-time, they’ve covered the second and third dates, whether Bellamy knows Clarke’s birthday, which emojis Clarke has in her phone’s contact info for Bellamy, and about a billion other things. Finally, Lincoln brushes Octavia’s shoulder, and the woman subsides and wishes them a good night.

“Good night,” Clarke and Bellamy echo, and the second the guest bedroom door clicks shut behind them, Clarke groans and collapses onto the bed.

“Your sister is the worst,” she says, then lets out a big _oof_ when Bellamy lands mostly on top of her, boneless with exhaustion.

“I tried to teach her boundaries,” he mumbles into her hair.

His elbow is digging into her side, and their legs are already tangled. Clarke snorts. “Yeah, somehow I’m not surprised you failed.”

Bellamy grumbles again, wordless grousing that makes him seem like he’s about eighty instead of thirty as he burrows more into her hair, and Clarke is so stupidly fond of him in that moment.

And with a wordless sigh of her own, she lets herself stop pretending, at least for a little bit in her own mind, that she’s not completely in love with him.

It hurts less than she’d thought it would. He’s close and warm, and that’s comforting.

Eventually he huffs and pulls himself off the bed, rolling his shoulders and twisting to the side until his back cracks.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

It’s carpeted, but hardly plush, and the only blanket in the room is the comforter on the bed. Honestly, it doesn’t make any sense not to share; Clarke’s already gone along with the ruse this long, and it’s not like sleeping in the same bed with him is going to make her fall in love with him. She’s already there.

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Your sister doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to knock,” she points out. “But if you want to be a chivalrous idiot, fuck up your back, _and_ blow your whole cover by sleeping on the floor instead of the nice warm bed, be my guest.”

Bellamy makes a face. “Well. No.”

“Then take out your contacts and get in bed,” she says, going over to her suitcase. “I’m going to change.”

She doesn’t hear anything as she pulls the sweater over her head and undoes the button on her jeans, but the second her hands go to the clasp of her bra, there’s a sudden, hurried rustling and the snick of the latch as Bellamy shuts the door to the bathroom behind him.

* * *

Bellamy’s already out of bed when Clarke wakes up on Christmas Eve morning, which is just as well. She doesn’t especially need to know what it’s like to wake up with him, or if she drooled on him overnight, or said something embarrassing in her sleep.

 _Going_ to sleep had been relatively painless; she’d put on the long-sleeved flannel pajamas her mother gave her for Christmas last year, the small gift their only celebration, and crawled under the covers. Bellamy had come out in the book-patterned pants she’d given him for his birthday, and once they were both in bed with the lights out, Clarke had fallen asleep surprisingly fast.

It’s late, Clarke realizes when she looks at her phone, half-past nine, and it’s no surprise Bellamy’s not in bed. She pulls on her boots and a sweater over her pjs, then goes to find him.

Bellamy is both a wonderful big brother and a terrible house guest, so she finds him in the kitchen babysitting a skillet of sizzling bacon.

“Morning,” Clarke says; Bellamy jumps, then hisses as a splatter of grease catches him on the arm.

“Morning,” he replies, pained, then catches sight of her and grins. “You look amazing.”

Rolling her eyes and fully aware of the fact that her hair is currently defying gravity, and the sweater she’s wearing is Bellamy’s and therefore is halfway down her thighs, Clarke crosses the kitchen to stand behind him. Using him as a shield from the still-sputtering bacon, she peeks at the stove.

Other than the bacon, there’s a covered pan of scrambled eggs, and some sauteed spinach and mushrooms like she likes.

“Looks good,” she says, and leans against him without thinking. His t-shirt is worn soft and thin from too many washes, and she can feel the warmth of his skin through it.

He goes a little tense, but only for a second, and then she feels his hand on her hip. Just a light touch, nothing demanding, but—they’re alone in the kitchen. No one’s there to show off for.

And Clarke likes it so, so much.

She rests her cheek on his back, arms around his waist while he finishes the bacon, companionably silent, and Clarke is actually sad when Octavia and Lincoln come into the kitchen and start chiding Bellamy for doing the cooking.

* * *

After the late breakfast, they all go into the little nearby town to look at lights. It’s pretty much an all-day event, because Main Street is dressed up like the North Pole—seriously, all of it is decked out in peppermint stripes, lights, bells and ribbon, with fake reindeer in front of all the shops. Clarke’s favorite is the display in front of the post office, which has a bunch of wicker reindeer crowded around a huge wooden replica of a Monopoly board, while a lone red-nosed reindeer sulks a few feet away.

When they’re looking at someone’s impressive replica of Santa’s sleigh, Bellamy asks her, in a low voice, if she’s still good with the holiday stuff.

She is, and it feels wonderful to realize that—that she can do these things again, like looking at the Christmas lights and getting excited about Christmas morning, and like them.

Clarke figures a lot of that is because of Bellamy.

There are carolers outside of the grocery store collecting donations; Lincoln and Octavia head inside, because there had been a general commotion when Octavia found out they’d only gotten the ingredients to _make_ homemade cranberry sauce, and they hadn’t gotten the canned stuff, too. But when Clarke sees that the donation box is for a local shelter and not one of the big nonprofits that will only support white heteronormative people, she stops and starts digging in her purse.

“Here,” Bellamy says, nudging her, and when she looks up he’s holding out a couple bills.

“You don’t—” Clarke starts, and he rolls his eyes and wraps her hands around the money. “I’ll pay you back,” she says.

He shrugs. “I don’t need you to. Just give the money to the next non-shitty collection you see.”

Clarke beams at him as she tucks the money in the collection box. The smallest caroler thanks them and hands her a plastic baggy filled with marshmallows, which confuses Clarke until she sees the writing on the side.

Ripping open the bag, Clarke bumps Bellamy with her hip. “Tell you what, I’ll share my snowman poop with you,” she says, grinning.

Bellamy snorts. “What?”

She shows him the thank you bag from their donation; it’s labeled in red sharpie block letters SNOWMAN POOP.

“Classy,” is all he says, and he pops a marshmallow in his mouth whole.

It’s habit now to reach for his hand, or wind her arm through his, or feel him slide an arm around her waist, and it feels—nice.

Really nice.

Too nice, probably, and Clarke should be actively working against getting used to it, not accepting that being with Bellamy Blake is habit-forming.

But she really can’t seem to find the energy or desire to fight it, so she goes on snuggling into him and stealing little kisses on the cheek and generally acting like the lovey-dovey couples she sees on streets in the city and wants to fight.

Bellamy’s just _really good_ at being lovey-dovey, okay, and Clarke guesses it’s really not that bad. Maybe she’ll cut those couples some slack.

By the time it’s getting dark and they’ve started to wander away from Main Street into the neighborhoods, which genuinely seem to be transplanted straight from Whoville, their decorations are so over-the-top, Clarke’s been Bellamy’s fake girlfriend for over twenty-four hours.

It feels like forever, and no time at all. It’s felt perfect.

And it’s going to end tomorrow night, Clarke thinks, after presents and Christmas dinner, because tomorrow night, they’re going home.

“Hey,” Bellamy says, touching her elbow. “You want some?”

He’s pointing to some little kids, all bundled up in front of one the houses, selling hot apple cider and cocoa from a folding table.

“Sure,” she says, forcing a smile. Bellamy squeezes her arm, then lets go, heading over to the kids with his sister.

Clarke’s left standing next to Lincoln. She hasn’t talked to him that much since she’s been there, and never just them, but she likes him. He clearly adores Octavia, and she knows he teaches basic martials arts in free afterschool programs in town.

“You enjoying being out of the city?” he asks her.

Clarke shrugs, smiling a little. “It’s definitely a fun break,” she says. “When I was little, I used to imagine moving out to a town like this, but I think I’m too used to the city now. Plus, Bellamy loves his job; I can’t imagine him ever moving away. But visiting is nice.”

Lincoln hums a little. “He probably would. If you wanted to.”

“What?” Surprised, Clarke turns to look at Lincoln.

“If you decided you wanted to move out of the city,” Lincoln repeats. “Bellamy would.”

“I—” Clarke pauses, helpless. She really has no idea what to say to that.

“He really loves you.” Lincoln’s smiling at her, and it’s not the ideal time for Clarke to freak out.

She wets her lips nervously. “You—you think so?”

“It’s obvious,” Lincoln says. “If you know what to look for.” He glances over at Octavia, who’s teasing the little girl selling cocoa into giggles. “And I have some experience figuring out Blake emotions.”

Clarke licks her lips again, staring at the ground. “Well. I’m not going to make him move out of the city, but. I love him too.” The words sound a little strange, like they’re sticking in her throat, and it’s the first time she’s ever said it out loud.

But it would have been strange if she hadn’t. She’s just keeping their cover, that’s all.

Lincoln’s silent for a long time, long enough that Clarke looks up, and she can practically feel the blood drain from her face.

Bellamy and Octavia are in front of them, surprise on Octavia’s face and—she’s not sure what Bellamy’s thinking. He just looks a little shell-shocked, holding forgotten cups of hot cider in his hands, and Clarke swallows thickly.

“Is—is that for me?” she asks, trying for a casual tone and easy smile, like she didn’t just say she loved him.

She fails, but. It’s the trying that counts.

“Uh—oh, yeah,” he says, and thrusts the cup at her so quickly the liquid sloshes over the edge and onto his hand. “Shit!”

“Bellamy!”

“Bell!”

Bellamy ignores them, going back to the cider table to throw the cup in their trash can, and when he returns his face is impassive, even though Clarke knows his hand must be stinging painfully.

“Are you okay?” she asks, reaching for his hand. His fingers are stiff in hers, but he doesn’t keep her from touching him.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, voice strange.

Clarke frowns at him, then looks over at Octavia and Lincoln. “I think he needs to ice this. Is it okay if Bellamy and I head back to your place?”

Lincoln opens his mouth, but Octavia cuts him off as she intertwines their arms. “Of course. We’ll stay out a bit longer, though, if you don’t need us.”

Clarke catches Lincoln eyeing his wife, but he obligingly hands Clarke his car keys.

“Call when you need a ride back to your house,” Clarke says. Octavia waves her off.

“We know everybody around here. We’ll just guilt some of them into giving us a ride.”

“Come on,” Clarke urges Bellamy, tugging gently on the fingers that weren’t burned. “Let’s get you taken care of.”

Still strangely silent, Bellamy waves goodbye with his good hand and starts heading back through the brightly-lit streets to where they parked that morning.

Once they’re away from the others, Clarke falls silent too. She doesn’t know what to say, when it’s just them, when Bellamy heard her—when he heard.

She could just laugh it off, she guesses, and say something about keeping their cover.

But that feels too dishonest, and she doesn’t know what to say instead.

But she doesn’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t make her. Even when they have to get into separate sides of the car and she reaches for his hand over the gearshift, he lets her hold it.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Clarke asks finally, when they’re turning into the driveway. “Your hand.”

“No,” Bellamy says, flexing it a little in her hold. “It doesn’t feel great, but it doesn’t hurt a _lot_.”

“Good,” Clarke says lamely, and pulls in next to Bellamy’s car. Inside the house, Shadow woofs a hello. “But—I should still look at it inside, I think.”

When she turns to him, he’s looking at her very intently, fine lines between his brows, and he nods once.

It’s rapidly getting colder now that it’s past sunset, and she imagines that if there were a cloud in sight, it would be snowing right now. That’s why she’s shivering a little, she tells herself; the chill in the air is giving her goosebumps, and it’s not just nerves as she follows Bellamy into the guest bathroom.

But she _is_ nervous. Something is going to happen.

She just doesn’t know what.

There’s a first-aid kit underneath the sink, and she makes Bellamy sit on the lid of the toilet and hold his hand under the tap while she runs cold water.

Holding his fingers delicately, Clarke turns his hand this way and that, frowning at the reddened skin on the back.

“It’s really not that bad, Clarke. Those kids were like five, their parents wouldn’t let them serve stuff hot enough to do serious damage.”

Reluctantly, she has to agree with him. “I’m still going to put some neosporin on it,” she decides. “And a bandaid.”

“Clarke.”

She ignores him and starts digging through the kit. “And I want you to _keep_ it on, okay? At least until tomorrow night. Then you—”

His hand, wet from the sink, catches her wrist and she freezes.

“Did you mean it?” Bellamy’s voice is hoarse, and she swallows.

“I was just…” It’s really cramped in this bathroom, she’s just realized; Bellamy’s knees are brushing her legs and there aren’t many places to look that aren’t his face. She’s doing her best anyway; the tile is a pretty shade of grey that definitely deserves her attention. “Lincoln said you loved me.”

A beat; then he snorts and lets his hand fall away. “Well. Thanks for keeping our cover.” He doesn’t sound amused, though, and when she lets herself look at him, he’s frowning fiercely at the shower curtain.

Clarke frowns too. “You’re the one who asked me to do this,” she reminds him, irritated and hurt and altogether too many emotions to be comfortable feeling at once. “You could have easily come by yourself and dealt with your sister’s matchmaking on your own, but you asked me to come and I’ve been doing my best.”

“Well, clearly I don’t think my plans through,” he replies hotly. “Because now my sister and brother-in-law think we’re in love, when you were just—” Bellamy goes silent, and her heart is pounding harder than seems healthy, and she wonders if maybe, just _maybe_.

“Bellamy.” He glances at her, then away. “Was—” She wets her lips. “Was Lincoln right?”

After a second of tense silence, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”

Close enough to a _yes_ , in Bellamy.

“God, of course I meant it!” she cries, and his eyes snap to hers, stunned.

“I—what?”

“I meant it, you idiot, I love you.” The words are tumbling over one another, falling from her lips like drops of water after having been bottled up so long. “Do you—?”

She thinks he does, she thinks this means he loves her like she loves him, as a best friend and someone to also make out with, and she’s proved right when he interrupts her in the middle of her frenzy with hands on her cheeks and lips on hers. His lips on hers, moving, coaxing, until her mouth falls open on a little laugh of joy, and she’s kissing him back, hands in his hair, because she _loves_ him, and he seems to love her too.

“I love you,” he says, mumbling the words against her lips, and then again. “I love you, I love you, god. I love you, Clarke.”

* * *

Waking up on Christmas morning is very different than it was waking up Christmas Eve.

For one thing, it’s early, probably just after dawn, and there’s that peculiar quiet that only comes with snow. When she glances over at the window, she can see fat flakes drifting down at a leisurely pace; the weather must have turned during the night.

For another, when she turns her gaze back to the bed, Bellamy’s next to her, eyes on her, and his arm is slung over her waist, his feet tangled with hers.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

“Merry Christmas,” she corrects, then yawns. “Why are you up so early?”

She can feel his muscles shift as he shrugs and brings a hand to comb through her hair. His fingers get stuck in tangles almost immediately, making her grimace; he laughs and apologizes, smoothing a hand over her head instead. “Sorry. I just couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Hmm.” Clarke closes her eyes and snuggles into him. “Well, I can, and I’m going to. It’s too early.”

“Don’t you want to see what Santa brought you?” he teases, thumb starting to rub circles on her waist under the covers.

“Nope.”

“Nope?” he echoes, voice incredulous.

Her lips curl into a smile and she tightens her own arms around him. He makes no move to pull away, even moves into her, like it’s his natural response. “No need.”

Bellamy’s raising an eyebrow at her when she peeks. “Oh, really?”

She nods solemnly. “I already got exactly what I wanted.”

“Huh? What? Oh, me?” He grins when she smacks his chest, and tugs her until she scoots up on the bed, face to face with him. “You’re alright, I guess, but I was really looking forward to finding out what Santa put in my stocking,” he teases.

She considers this, then scrambles out of bed, whacking him with her pillow. “Race you to the tree!” she calls back, laughing at his yelp, and she _is_ the first one to the living room, the first to see the way the stockings sag, heavy on the mantle, the way the wrapping gleams under the tree lights.

It’s beautiful, and when Bellamy catches her around the waist, sneaking a nibbling kiss to her jaw until she squeals, it’s perfect.

She really does have exactly what she wants. 


End file.
